


One Hundred Twelve Seconds

by A_For_Accidental



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slightly OOC Sherlock but I was still new to writing so here ya go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_For_Accidental/pseuds/A_For_Accidental
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hundred Twelve Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Very very very lightly inspired by the end of We Bought A Zoo.
> 
> My first official AO3 contribution, just some one-shot I had dying in the bottom of my fic folder.  
> Hope you all enjoy :)

John waddled angrily into the flat, shedding his coat and his jumper as he went.  Sherlock, suppressing a laugh and settling for a grin, followed him and closed the door after they’d entered the confines of their home.  

“Nobody told you to follow him, John.”

“Sherlock, shut up.”

“I’m just stating the f--”

“The fact, Sherlock, is that I am covered in shit.”

“You’re covered in water.”

“I’m covered in shit-water, that's what I am.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved John’s coat from the floor to the kitchen, laying it over the sink and leaning against the counter as John waddled into the bathroom and turned on the shower.  It had been a thrilling chase until the banker had decided that a great getaway strategy was to grab the thing closest to himself and jump into the Thames.  It took twelve minutes to find John, twelve minutes in which Sherlock was either frozen with debilitating fear or pacing around the spot where John had fallen in.  When they’d finally pulled him out of the water, John was shivering, scowling, and in desperate need of a shower. Good thing he got one when he did, too. Sherlock couldn’t stand the stench.  Even though John was safely tucked away in the bathroom, the tall detective was still shaking.  He could not come that close to losing John again. Not again.

“Sherlock?”

He jumped at the sound of his own name, yanked out of his thoughts.  John was out of the bathroom and already in his pyjama bottoms.  He was rubbing his hair with his towel, shedding water to the tile floor.

“Yes, yes what is it?”

“You. . . you alright?”  John dropped the towel and shuffled over to Sherlock, tilting his head to the side in confusion and squinting his eyes in concentration.

“I-I’m fine,” Sherlock said, ignoring his voice crack and turning away quickly.  John caught his chin and yanked his face back, looking at him intensely.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Sherlock.”

“Ghosts are an childish lege--.”

“You’re pale and scared to death.  What happened?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock snapped.  He pulled John’s hand away from his chin and turned to his room, slamming the door behind him.

-

-

-

His shoulders were being shaken. Hard. But John was still in the water, his hand sticking above the waves and Sherlock running and running but unable to catch him. He started screaming, knowing that it was futile, knowing that he didn’t care.  He just screamed, John’s name over and over, then the shaking at his shoulders intensified and someone slapped his face.

“John!” he shrieked, shooting up from the bed and hands grabbing blindly in front of him.  Sherlock felt strong arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him close and stopping his frenzied movements. He melted into the touch, wrapping his arms around his saviors waist and burying his nose into the crook of their neck.  He was hyperventilating but he was still able to catch the smell now surrounding him.  It smelled like tea and hand sanitizer and. . . John’s shampoo?

"Shh, you're awake," the soft, gruff voice crooned. John began rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back, working warmth into the detective's body. "No wonder you had a nightmare. You're bloody freezing!"

"I'm f-f-f..." Sherlock trailed off, voice failing him and a traitorous tear rolling down his cheek. John squeezed him tighter, making Sherlock sigh involuntarily. John, a bit spooked by the noise, pulled back slowly and patted Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Alright?"

Sherlock nodded. John stood from the bed, giving Sherlock a curt nod before moving for the door.

"Call if you need anything. But," he added, "don't call so loudly next time."

-

-

-

He was shrugging his coat off and wiping the blood from his nose when he noticed John standing in front of him, arms crossed.

“Can I help you?” Sherlock asked, moving into the kitchen and grabbing a paper towel and staunching the flow of blood.  John followed him in with a glare on his face.  

“This is the third time you’ve left without me.”

“And?”

“Why are you so insistent on keeping me in the flat?”

Sherlock finished wiping his nose and dropped the soaked paper towel into the garbage before striding into the living room and turning on his computer. He didn’t get very far with using it, though, because John snapped it shut, nearly crushing his fingers.  

“Sherlock.”

He sighed and looked at John.  “What?”

“Answer me.”

“I just did.”

“Sherlock.”

The exasperated detective threw his hands in the air.  “What do you want me to say?! That I’m worried for your health? That I’m feeling selfish? Well, fine. There you have it.” He stood from his desk and pushed his way past John into the kitchen. He felt trapped, walking back and forth but not wanting to close another door.  John was still standing in the living room, confused, when he finally spoke.

“How does leaving the flat concern my health, Sherlock?”

“Disease, injury, near death experiences, the list goes on, really.”

“And you can’t stop all of those from happening just by locking me up here all day.”

“Who’s to say I can’t? You’re going to get hurt again.”

John opened his mouth to retort but closed it quickly, still confused.  Again?

“Is. . . is this about the river thing?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “No, this is about you being a clumsy idiot.”

John rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, this is about the river thing.  Sherlock,” He followed Sherlock into the kitchen where his flatmate had busied himself with inspecting all of his various beakers.  John grabbed him by the shoulders and forced Sherlock to face him.  “I’m here, I’m fine. I was bloody shot in Afghanistan, I don’t think anything that bad has happened or is going to happen, alright?”

Sherlock looked away, but nodded nonetheless.  John sighed and released him, walking into the living room and grabbing the newspaper, trying to look busy even though his mind was reeling.  concerned for my health? doesn’t want me to get hurt again? what happened? John was in the river for a good long time, he was bound to have missed something.

-

-

-

Sherlock didn’t know how to describe it, nor did he want to know how.  It was too debilitating, to raw, to be anything healthy.  It made his insides squirm and his heart flutter and his head go fuzzy until he wasn’t able to think straight.  He hated it.  And yet...he couldn’t remember a time before it where he’d felt happy.  No matter how horrible it felt, it always left him feeling on top of the world, which was irrational because A) There was no “top of the world” and B) there were so many people who were much happier than he was.  And there was a third option, C, which hadn’t been entirely explored yet.  

"Sherlock? Are you done yet?"

Molly's gentle voice broke through his mind palace and pulled him back to reality.

"What?"

"I was just," Molly pointed behind herself towards the door, "just, closing up. You almost done?"

Sherlock blinked and set down the pipettes he'd been observing. "Yes, yes of course."

Molly squinted slightly as she watched Sherlock slowly put away his experiment.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You just seem. . . Shaken."

"Shaken?"

Molly wandered over, not taking her eyes off him. "Is this about the thing with John?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "Can we drop it if I say yes?"

Shifting uneasily, Molly shrugged. "D'you. . .Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

She nodded, pushing her hands into her pockets and bouncing on her heels. "You know, it's okay to care once in a while."

"I said I didn't want to talk about it."

"I never said you had to."

He opened his eyes and looked at Molly, not saying a word.  

“It’s alright to care. John does. But it’s not okay to bury it so deep down that when you slip and care, all of your emotions sort of bubble up and explode. You both have that problem, actually.”

i don’t bury it down.  i choose to ignore it.

“No matter what you might think, Sherlock, it’s not bad. Caring is fine. Feeling emotions. . . unpleasant, to say the least, but that sort of depends on the person.”

as if i don’t know this. “If it’s always this unpleasant then I don’t see the point in emotions at all.”

“It’s not always unpleasant.  In fact, if you allow it, emotions can be beautiful.”

i tried to see it that way.  it just hurts.

“Why not try telling him how you fee--”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because...” he’d turn me away he’d be awkward who’d want to know me? Who’d want to care about me?

Molly sighed and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm, patting it slightly.  “If he’s been stuck with you for this long, it’s likely that he won’t turn you away. Five years is a long time, Sherlock.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

She thought for a moment.

“Sometimes ... it just takes a little time.  Just a spur-of-the-moment thing.” She grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and held it up.  “Time yourself.  Thirty-seven seconds of--”

“Thirty-seven?”

“My lucky number--thirty-seven seconds of insane, unsure, horrifying bravery.”

“Bravery is a nice term for stupidity.”

“Fine then.  Thirty-seven seconds of insane, unsure, stupid horrifying courage.”

“Time it?”

“Time it.”

With that, Molly left.

-

-

-

John blearily opened the door to the living room and stopped dead in his tracks before checking the clock.  It was only seven o'clock in the morning. And there was the strong scent of cooking oil and bread coming from the kitchen.  Rubbing his eyes, John padded towards the source of the smell where he found Sherlock setting the table with plates of eggs, toast, and bacon.  

Sherlock glanced up to check the clock when instead he found John Watson standing in front of him.  He panicked and nearly dropped the fork he was holding but he managed to swallow the surprise and allow himself a smile.

strange, John thought, wandering over to the table.  sherlock is never up this early when he actually sleeps.

Keep calm, keep calm Sherlock thought as he pulled out a seat on John’s end of the table and gestured for him to sit. One hundred twelve seconds. That should give him, what, nearly two minutes? If he could just keep his breathing under control.

John, out of surprise and confusion, smiled and sat down in his chair.  It was odd, sitting at a set table and eating a proper breakfast.  feels like I haven’t done this for years.

Sherlock finally found his voice.  “I, er, thought you might like a proper breakfast for once.” He grabbed a pair of warm, ready-filled tea mugs from the counter and set them in their respective spots.  He sat down across from John and glanced down at his watch.  two minutes starting. . . now.

“John--”

“Sherlock--”

Both men, spooked by the suddenness of their words, recoiled slightly before one of them broke the silence.

“John,” Sherlock began, “I, um, wanted to apologize for my outburst the other day.  And for my. . . erm. . . recent behavior.”

John nodded, not saying anything further. where is he going with this? he thought absently.

“I just, um. You nearly died in the river, and, um. . .” Sherlock trailed off, staring at his tea and trying to force the words that were stuck in his throat.

John listened to the man across from him struggle to find a way to speak.  He thought back to all of the previous conversations they’d had.  He spoke so eloquently, but when touchy subjects came up, the Fall, the River, the Bonfire, Sherlock had always been reduced to a gooey mess of words sticking and running together.  John never heard anyone else receive this same reaction.

why isn’t it working?! Sherlock thought as he began to panic.  He glanced back down at his watch. seventy-five seconds.

“I, um. . . John,  you know that I’ve known you for five years, correct?”

John nodded. five years ago today, I--

“And five years ago today, you saved me from a cabbie and from myself.”

John’s thoughts came to a stuttering halt. Himself?

“Three years ago, I. . . abandoned you. . .”

way to bring that one up again.

“You...um...” --Sixty seconds, you can do it-- “You’ve kept me standing for as long as I have. You’ve been my rock, my partner, my protector, and my friend.  And there is probably no one else in this world who I could thank more sincerely than you.”

Uneasiness fluttered in John’s chest.

“I’ve. . . I’ve been keeping you in the flat lately because. . . because. . .” forty-five seconds, just do it you bloody idiot. “I can’t have your death on my conscience--” --way to get that one across, you daft-- “--because I couldn’t live with myself if you weren’t here to keep me grounded.”

dear god, the poor man’s babbling, John thought. Something began pulling at his chest when

“I...uh...” --thirty seconds and counting-- “You’ve saved me, John Watson.  And I can’t possibly be able to return the undying. . . gratitude that I’m. . . feeling right now.” JUST SAY IT YOU IDIOT

John knew he was staring. Wide eyed, probably. Odd frown on his face, likely. But he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the man who was all but pouring his soul out at John’s feet.

Sherlock sighed and held his head in his hands.  “I’m just trying. . . um. . .

twenty seconds

“The point I’m trying to make...”

eleven seconds

“Um...”

ten

nine

eight

seven

six

“I...”

five

four

“I...love...”

three

two

“Y--”

Sherlock was cut off by a sharp yank on his collar, forcing him to stand, and pulling him over the table.  His feeble attempt at speech was halted when a pair of lips gently pressed into his.

His mind went blank, ringing with chemical signals and blood pounding in his ears. His eyes closed and he melted into the kiss, not knowing what else to do.  

John was sure that he knocked something over, an empty glass, a salt shaker, he didn’t care.  

They pulled apart and John smiled, still holding onto Sherlock’s collar.  Sherlock, eyes wide, opened his mouth to speak but closed it instead when no words came to mind.

-

-

-

It was warm, that night in Kenwood Forest.  They were on a case, as always, but they had some down time.  So, as they had to stay in the woods incase a situation arose, they took to stargazing.  John would point out a star, and Sherlock would rattle off everything about that star he could remember.  John would just listen to him ramble, and he let his thoughts wander.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Sherlock stopped speaking and looked over in surprise. “What?”

“Your favorite color?”

“Why would you want to know?”

“I dunno, just. . . curious, I suppose.”

“Hmm.”

“So?”

Sherlock thought for a moment.  “Green.”

“Green, like, traffic light green?”

“No, more like plant green. Grass green.  You see so little of it in the city.”

“Ah.”

“What about you?”

John tried to place it, tried to bring words that would fit. “Your eyes,” he settled on.

Sherlock snorted. “That’s hardly a color.”

“Well, I don’t know what they are! They seem to change all the time. Like a rainbow.”

“I do not have rainbow eyes.”

John laughed softly.

“What’s your favorite number?” Sherlock asked after a minute.

“My...favorite number?”

“While we’re on the subject of random factoids and information then yes, your favorite number.”

“I dunno, seven.”

“Typical.”

“Huh?”

“The human brain is hardwired towards-- never mind.”

John shook his head and sighed.  “What’s your favorite number?”

Sherlock smiled.

“One hundred twelve.”


End file.
